


Pscientific Method

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Dimension Travel, Eastern Sea (Narnia), Gen, Time Shenanigans, setting: Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: "The Matter of the Missing Shoe," intoned Psmith, "began much like the first letter of my last name: silently." Technically, thought Edmund, it had begun with a Dufflepud-shaped THUD, but of course Psmith had no way of knowing that part of the story.





	1. Make an observation and form a question.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> For aurilly: A story wherein Edmund deals with ridiculous situations, the mechanics of traveling through different times and worlds, and (perhaps most perplexing of all) Psmith. I tried to keep the dates as close as possible to established canon, but I may have bent the space-time continuum slightly in the course of writing this story. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many, many thanks to the lovely Rthstewart for beta-ing the madness that follows!

"Look for knowledge not in books, but in things themselves."  
\- William Gilbert, natural philosopher and royal physician

"Unseen in the background, Fate was quietly slipping lead into the boxing-glove."  
– _Very Good, Jeeves_ (P.G. Wodehouse)

 

**Cambridge, 1942**

"They're going to rename Experiment House," announced Eustace, dumping his bag on the table. A plethora of notebooks fell out, along with a little film-covered box containing a carefully preserved dragonfly, pressed wildflowers, and an empty wrapper of chewing gum.

Jill had already gone home for the hols, and as much as he tried to hide it, Eustace clearly missed her. Lucy emanated sympathy. Edmund thought Eustace might rather have a distraction, so he provided it. "What's the new name, then? Hypothesis House?"

Eustace grinned wickedly. "I suggested Lionsgate. Pole backed me up. Doubt they'll go for it, though. Reminds folks too much of The Scandal."

Mass hallucinations of Lions and sword-waving barbarians would be the sort of thing most people would prefer to forget, Edmund supposed.

"There was some talk about going back to its previous name — Old Sludgey, or something horrid like that — but they aren't much for history there," continued Eustace, rolling his eyes. "Except for one of our new professors. He's like something out of a history book himself. Peculiar fellow. Sharp dresser, a bit old fashioned, and wears a monocle of all things."

Edmund felt a bit peculiar himself, suddenly.

"Odd bloke. His name's Smith, but he spells it all wrong. He says it's Psmith, with a silent P — you know, like pteradactyl."

Edmund stood abruptly, his chair clattering against the wall. It left a faint mark; Aunt Alberta would be furious. Eustace merely raised an eyebrow. Lucy looked back and forth between them. "Should I know that name, brother?" she asked Edmund pointedly.

"Hard to forget, I should think." remarked Eustace. "Lots of Smiths in the world, but not many Psmiths."

"Let's hope," said Edmund weakly.

Lucy pulled her brother back into his chair and plunked a cup of tea in front of him. "Tell us? Please?"

"It's a long story."

"You've just listened to mine," reasoned Eustace, who indeed had grown rather hoarse relating everything that had happened in Narnia — Puddleglum, Rillian, and all the rest. "Your turn, cousin."

"Oxford," mumbled Edmund.

"Inferior to Cambridge in every way," Eustace declared promptly. "Er, what about it?"

"Not the place. The shoe."

"Shoe? By the Lion, what's a shoe to do with anything?" As heartening as it was to hear his cousin spouting Narnian idioms, Eustace wasn't making the tale any easier to tell.

Edmund demurred. "It's... confusing."

Lucy's eyes sparkled. "Like a puzzle? Do tell us! Start at the beginning."

Eustace reached for one of his ubiquitous notebooks. Lucy giggled. "Notes make everything clearer," he said with a touch of his old defensiveness.

"I don't think the scientific method applies in Narnia," said Edmund doubtfully.

He was only partially correct.

* * *

In 1942, two Pevensies and one Clarence Eustace Scrubb (who almost certainly deserved his name at the time) boarded a Narnian ship that sailed in a painting in England. They returned the very moment they departed.

This, you may say, is impossible.

Rather, it is a commonly held belief that it is impossible to be in two places at once, much like a batsman and a non-striker never make ground in the same crease. The laws of time, space, physics and cricket simply don't permit it. In short, two Pevensies and one Clarence Eustace Scrubb (whether or not he deserved his name) could not possibly both stand _in front of_ a painting of a ship while standing _on_ the ship _in_ the painting.

However, the ways between worlds frequently ignore the laws of time, space, physics and cricket.

To wit:

In 1942, Edmund and Lucy Pevensie stood in front of a painting. Both subsequently and simultaneously, they sailed the Eastern Sea on a dragon-prowed ship with purple sails. During that time, which took no time at all, Edmund stepped through a doorway to another world and had adventures there.

In 1907, Mike Jackson lost a shoe.

Again in 1942, Eustace Clarence Scrubb no longer deserved his name. As a result, he lost both his shoes sometime during the time which took no time at all.

Also in 1942, Rupert Psmith snuck into his old school study, stuck his hand up the chimney and removed the shoe lodged there. With a gleam of fond reminiscence in his eye, his single eyeglass glinting merrily for the occasion, he nailed the much-abused footwear to the wall in the manner of a man mounting a prized trophy. 

In 1935, physicist Erwin Schrödinger devised a hypothetical situation involving quantum mechanics. Imagine a cat and a poison together in a box. An atom decays at random, triggering a Geiger counter, releasing the poison, and killing the cat. (Back when Eustace still deserved his name, he explained the hypothetical experiment to his cousins in considerable detail. "That's barbaric!" exclaimed Lucy. "That's science," retorted Eustace.) Outside the box, there is no way to observe whether or not this random event has occurred. Schrödinger therefore posited that, until the box was opened and the results observed, the cat was both alive and dead simultaneously.

Edmund posited that this was a load of rubbish.

Eustace the Undragoned, who no longer deserved his full name except on rare occasion of relapse, disagreed. Quantum entanglement, he argued – but that is neither here nor there.

Rather, it is _both_ here and there, which is where our story begins.

For those who do not follow quantum theory, and who find their thoughts entangled instead of their quarks, an easier starting point might be the following. Before Schrödinger's cat, there was the Matter of the Missing Shoe. The facts of the case were few but damning:

1\. The paint on Mike Jackson's shoe was red.  
2\. Coincidentally, so was the housemaster's dog.  
3\. Not coincidentally, so was Master Downing's face when his formerly white-coated dog burst into the classroom accompanied by a chorus of hysterical laughter.

But Lucy said to start at the beginning, and so we shall.

The first time Edmund saw Mike Jackson's missing shoe, it was innocuously mounted on a dark-paneled wall next to a stuffed fish seemingly caught in the act of swallowing a duck. As there were much odder things in Coriakin's house, Edmund paid it no mind. The second time was much more interesting, but neither fish nor fowl was involved. The third time, the shoe was once more innocuously mounted on a dark-paneled wall next to a stuffed fish seemingly caught in the act of swallowing a duck.

This would normally give one pause. It gave Edmund a splitting headache.

To attempt to make some sense of the situation, we may turn to one of the few useful books in the Scrubb household. It contained an essay: _The Origins of William Gilbert's Scientific Method_ , by Edgar Zilsel (1941). Edmund Pevensie (Just King of Narnia and all those other titles that seemed so out of place when one was supping hunched over in a Beaver's dam or pulling weeds out of Aunt Alberta's victory garden) hadn't the foggiest idea who either chap was, and therefore passed over the essay in favor of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_.

In retrospect, it was a pity that Edmund had dismissed the rest of the Scrubb library as containing all the wrong sort of books. Had he read _The Origins of William Gilbert's Scientific Method_ , he no doubt would have learned a great deal about the importance of observation – which is widely held to be the first step in the modern scientific method.

Unfortunately, the first time Edmund saw Mike Jackson's missing shoe, he utterly failed to notice it.

* * *

**Coriakin's Island, the Eastern Sea, 2306**

"I still have sand in my shoes," complained Eustace.

Edmund's first uncharitable thought was that not even being Undragoned could make his cousin palatable in the morning.

His second, more truthful, thought was to wonder if he himself had still been so beastly that first spring after the Witch's winter. He suspected he didn't want to know the answer, else he would ask Lucy… Belatedly, the source of Eustace's temper became clear. "Don't worry," said Edmund, "Lucy has faced worse than this before."

"But you can't _face_ an invisible magician, can you?"

Edmund gritted his teeth. _Be nice_ , Lucy had exhorted him quietly before ascending the narrow stairs. How did his sister manage it? He took a deep breath.

"Aslan will watch over her," Edmund said confidently. With some relief, he watched Eustace straighten.

Now, if only he could calm his own nerves.

Edmund was not generally a restless person. That is to say, although he couldn't win a staring contest against a waxworks figure, he could likely cause a few beads of sweat to pearl along the waxy brow before conceding.

Peter and Lucy — especially Lucy — were the ones who couldn't sit still. Peter's leg was always twitching, his fingers always looking for something to fiddle with. As a king, he had stilled his hands when decorum demanded. On his own time, he put his restlessness to use in carpentry, whittling or simply appeasing the dumb palace cat. (She scratched anyone else who came near her, but cats loved to shed all over Peter's Most Royal Robes.)

And Lucy, well. As much as she loved the sea, the confines of the ship were simply too small for his wide-roaming sister. They had all breathed a silent sigh of relief at finding a deserted island where she could stretch her legs. (Even if it turned out to be less deserted than it had seemed.)

Normally, Edmund could out-wait any of them —even Susan, who was not always as patient as she seemed.

But Coriakin's house teemed with magic, and Edmund could not sit still. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his hands itched for a sword to grip. He eyed every corner as if the witch herself might melt from the shadows.

"Tash take it, I'm going up too," he said abruptly.

Caspian laid a restraining hand on his elbow. "I would not advise it. Our… hosts… said Lucy had to complete this task alone."

Edmund grudgingly appreciated Caspian's tact in not ordering him to stay. Not that it would have worked. Edmund was no one's subject. "Lucy can do whatever she sets her mind to. But I'd feel better if someone were there to guard her back."

"I thought you said Aslan would do that," said Eustace in a small voice.

Perched on his shoulder, Reepicheep nodded approvingly. "My friend is right, Sire. We must place our trust in Aslan and your sister both."

Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. When even Eustace started making sense…

A clap of thunder shook the walls. "Did that come from _inside_ the house?" asked Eustace.

"That tears it." Edmund placed a booted foot firmly on the first stair. "What did the Chief say? Last door on the right?"

When Caspian moved to protest, Edmund stopped him. "I won't go in. I know better than to interfere with spellworking, in any case. But no one is going to stop me from guarding that door until Lucy comes out." He raised his voice. "And that goes for you lot, too, invisible or not." Without waiting for a reply, he spun and marched up the staircase.

Later, when Lucy asked him about the masks and mirrors and the like adorning the walls, Edmund ruefully conceded that he hadn't paid attention at all. He examined every shadowed doorway but ignored the spaces between them. He paused to listen at every landing, but did not stop to look at the carved runes or veiled statues.

At the top of the interminable stairs, a richly brocaded carpet stretched down a hallway. The corridor looked straight, but somehow Edmund could not see the end of it.

"The front of the house didn't look curved," he muttered to himself. Yet the end of the hall was always out of sight, and when he turned to look back, he could not see the stair rail either. 

Edmund walked on.

Muffled on the carpet, his footsteps had no echo. There were no sounds of the outside world, no windows through which to glimpse the grounds. Yet the ceiling overhead was bright as day, and Edmund swore he saw clouds scudding between the wooden beams.

He walked on, and on, until the corridor came to an abrupt end.

The blank wall in front of him stymied Edmund for a moment. His eyes registered the lack of decoration, the lighter color of the plaster compared to the rest of the hallway, the faded and worn path down the center of the carpet that continued right up to the very edge of the wall… but then Edmund's gaze fell upon the door, and all else fell away.

The last door on the right.

It was a plain wooden door. Sturdy, the kind one might find in any English house. Edmund pressed his ear to it, but could hear no sound.

He moved quietly to second-to-last door and again listened. No sound. 

Fortunately, he didn't have to pick the lock. The door yielded obediently, and Edmund entered a room not unlike a school study. He noted a couple deal tables, a rather spiffing deck chair, a dusty bookshelf, and some decidedly odd decor. A mounted fish gaped from the wall as if caught midway through devouring a mounted duck. Next to it was another trophy; it resembled nothing more than a shoe, but Edmund supposed it had to be some poor animal's head. He gave it no more thought, for at that moment he heard a cascade of crashes from the next room.

 _Lucy_.

He dashed back out into the hall and threw his weight against the door, wincing when it did not give way. "Blast!" He had lost the advantage of surprise; whatever was waiting on the other side of that door — whatever had felled Lucy — would be ready for him.

Edmund took a deep breath and charged. His shoulder was millimeters away from a second bruise when the door opened.


	2. Form a hypothesis and conduct an experiment

"Work, the what's-its-name of the thingummy and the thing-um-a-bob of the what d'you-call-it."  
–  _Psmith, Journalist_ (P.G. Wodehouse)

"Is this impertinence studied, Smith?"  
"Ferguson's study, sir? No, sir. That's farther down the passage. This is Barnes's."  
\- _Mike and Psmith_ (P.G. Wodehouse)

 

**Sedleigh, 1907**

Edmund careened through the suddenly open doorway. His momentum carried him past a bookshelf and more deal tables. Another, conveniently placed deck chair stopped him from tumbling straight out the open window. He tumbled over the deck chair instead, landing face first in a pile of shoes.

"I said 'just a minute,'" reproached a very British voice. "That is the trouble with today's feckless youth. We are always rushing, hither and thither and yon, alas! 'The world is too much with us!' Thus were Wordsworth's worthy words, and who can say him nay? Rejoice, fellow traveler through this mortal coil — was that Wordsworth as well? No? Ah well — rejoice anyway, for here you may rest your burdens and your weary brow. Set aside your haste with alacrity! And set aside those shoes while you are at it," the boy continued in slightly less dramatic fashion, "for Master Downing will certainly wish to search them again."

Edmund was keenly aware that he was gaping like a trout when faced with a new sort of fly, something speckled and feathered and entirely unlike anything found in nature. "Who are you?" he managed.

"A question I often ask myself. Who am I? What distinguishes my mind from yours — aside, that is, from certain unfounded accusations that have been cast upon the shores of my psyche like so much flotsam? I am Psmith — with a P, mind you, but unvoiced, if you please. None of this _Puh-smith_ nonsense. Rather, it should be pronounced with an eloquent silence, like psychosis or pneumatic — and therein lies the thing. Why the 'P', you ask? Who am I? They are one in the same! Would not a Psmith by any other name, etcetera?" The boy's eyes shone. At least, Edmund supposed they did; one of them was distorted by a monocle. "The question echoes through the ages! Is there one among us who has an answer?"

"I'm Edmund Pevensie," answered Edmund dryly. "One 'P' only, spelled like it's pronounced."

Psmith nodded sagely. "A traditionalist."

"Quite."

Conversation flagged like a wobbly bowler facing a batsman who made century during the morning's innings.  
Edmund extricated himself from the pile of shoes, but before he could open his mouth, Psmith sallied forth with another monologue.

"From your attire I see you are a student of the theatrical arts!" exclaimed Psmith. He appraised Edmund's Narnian garb with a keen eye. "I myself am a student of all the arts, and of history — yes, and archeology! One might say I am a student of life itself."

"Are you a student of shoes as well?" Edmund interrupted. There were perhaps more relevant questions he could have asked, but he always reverted to sarcasm in times of stress.

"That is a long and sorry tale," began Psmith, but this time Edmund had the presence of mind to interrupt.

"It can wait. First, tell me: has my sister been here? A girl, about so tall, possibly waving a sword?"

One of Psmith's eyebrows crept above his monocle, while the other did a jig reminiscent of a caterpillar trying not to fall off a twig. "A girl? In Sedleigh? My good man!" His Adam's apple bobbed.

"I suppose she might look like a boy at first glance," allowed Edmund, "owing to the trousers."

Psmith's monocle quivered. "I say," he said and faltered, overcome.

Edmund waited. "Say what?" he finally prompted.

Gloriously mute for a brief moment, Psmith shook his head. "I say," he repeated, this time with a distinct tone of admiration.

Lucy collected reverent followers wherever she went, mused Edmund in fond exasperation. And now, even where she didn't go. "I take it you haven't seen her."

Psmith righted his monocle. "Regretfully, no, I have not. Although I devoutly wish she might appear before Master Downing! That would make him forget his current quest, no doubt, thus sparing my dearest friend from an ill-fated fate he ill deserves."

It was on the tip of Edmund's tongue to announce his imminent departure, but upon untangling Psmith's last phrase, he paused. It was increasingly apparent that wherever this Sedleigh place was, it was not in Narnia, and Lucy was not here. His place was with his sister. And yet... surely Aslan's mandate applied here as well?

"This Master Downing has it in for a friend of yours?" Edmund sought to clarify. "Unjustifiably?"

"Just so. The cry resounds through Shropshire: young Psmith's companion is maligned, his character woefully misconstrued! His—"

"Wait." Edmund held up a hand for silence. "First, tell me: are we in England?"

Psmith's monocle fell from its lofty perch. "My good man!" the old Etonian exclaimed in tones of concern. "Are you quite well?"

"Just answer the question," said Edmund between gritted teeth.

Wounded, Psmith pressed a genteel hand to his chest. "I wish only to ensure your welfare, young Pevensie, for surely only a great unrest of the soul could lead you to doubt that we are indeed in England, fairest of fair lands! For it was here (granted, not at Sedleigh proper, but it is near enough) where Shakespeare penned mightier than the sword, where a good many Richards and Henrys left their marks upon history, where Psmith emerged from a line of Smiths—"

Edmund tuned him out. So he had stumbled into England after all. But it was becoming abundantly clear that this was not _his_ England.

 _Have I gone back in time?_ he wondered incredulously. He dared not ask Psmith the year; he could pass off his geographical inquiry as a joke, a misconstrued sarcastic remark. Questions about time travel would bring doctors, straightjackets and a one-way ticket far away from the door that brought him here. Away from Lucy, Eustace and all the rest. Away from Narnia.

"—the land where the common man rallies 'round his comrades-in-arms — I say, is that a sword you're holding?"

Edmund made a noncommittal noise, and Psmith embarked upon another elegy, this one to the age of chivalry, giving Edmund time to think.

 _It's all in the timing,_ he reasoned. _We know time flows differently in Narnia. If an English second equals a Narnian age, it's all over — I've been here too long, I'll never get back_. A queer hollow feeling spread in his chest.

"—relative to our place in history, not unstained by conflict, but in time rising above such displays—"

 _But what if time isn't constant? What if it's relative?_ The thought buoyed him, but what did it mean? Ruefully, Edmund wished Eustace were with him. His cousin would know all about such things, and was usually more than happy to expound upon them.

 _Perhaps,_ he reasoned, _it's not Narnian time versus English time, but rather here-and-now time versus where-you-came-from time. Origin versus destination._

In which case, however much time he spent in Sedleigh, Edmund _should_ return to Narnia in the very moment he left it.

"—in England, merry England of fair cliffs and dewy downs! The kingdom of crumpets, croquet and cricket!"

If Edmund was right, he had all the time in the world. This world, at any rate. If he was wrong, there was very little he could do about it anyway. It would have already been too late to return the very moment he left.

The thought made his heart ache and sent his head spinning.

"For me, cricket is an observer's sport," continued Psmith, undaunted by Edmund's silence. "We Psmiths are natural observers — not merely of cricket, but of the natural order, of men's little foibles, even of ruined abbeys when needs must."

Psmith scattered dashes in his speech, noted Edmund, as if channeling the spirit of some Byronic poet.

"But when it comes to physical pursuits, I've always been rather fond of croquet," Psmith nattered on. "The silent letter, you know. Shows an _esprit de corps_ , a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , if you get my meaning. Comrade Jackson says — quite rightly, of course — that it cannot compare to the solid crack of a cricket bat. Yet the fondness, however unfounded, remains."

The words washed over Edmund like the sea, wave after relentless wave of echoes from the past like the wind-whipped sea breaking upon the shore of his psyche.  
Lion's mane, but Psmith's metaphors were contagious.

"Have I answered your question, Comrade?" inquired Psmith solicitously.

Edmund pulled himself out of his thoughts with an effort. "And then some," he answered, his voice dry. A fresh inquiry or perhaps a friendly barb was poised on the tip of his tongue, like a dragonfly quivering on the tip of a reed. In such moments the dragonfly either launches gracefully into aerial acrobatics or is abruptly swallowed by some enterprising fish or fowl.

With Edmund, metaphorically speaking, it was the latter. His gaze caught upon something for which he could find no proper noun, and his thoughts ground to a halt. The world would never know what wisdom or witticism he was about to pronounce, for Edmund swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue and croaked instead, "What is that?"

"Do you mean the trophy?" Psmith asked as Edmund stared at the mounted creature on the wall, willing it to give some sort of explanation.

The sullen looking pike glared wall-eyed from its mount on a ratty piece of driftwood. Those who gazed upon it frequently felt rather embarrassed, in the way that one does when unwittingly pinning some poor chap with a question just as he stuffs his mouth full of watercress sandwiches. Watercress is not something to be swallowed in haste. Nor, Edmund surmised, was a whole duck, as the interrupted pike had clearly attempted to do. Even in death, its carefully preserved jaws had a jealous clamp on the bird, who for its part retained only the look of vague alarm common to all waterfowl. Edmund felt a sudden and great pity for the duck, along with a certain kinship. He too knew what it was to be held in an unyielding grasp without even the slightest hope of kicking Fate in the teeth.

"How…?" he heard himself ask as if from a great distance.

"According to Master Thripps-Smythe, he was in the process of catching the fish when it also swallowed a duck. Or perhaps he was in the process of shooting the duck when it was swallowed by a fish — I can never remember." Psmith gazed fondly on the monstrosity. "Either way, it is a triumph of taxidermy."

In another place or time, Edmund would have laughed.

Instead, he felt the floor creak and heave beneath him as if he were still aboard the _Dawn Treader_. He had seen the taxidermied travesty before — in the magician's house, in the next room over.  
Heaven forbid there be more than one of these monstrosities in all the worlds. It couldn't be in two places at once... could it? Was he still in the magician's house, held captive by some spell and experiencing an illusion of England?

If all his theories were wrong...

 _Lucy_.

What would his sister's advice be?  _Trust in Aslan. We were always brought here for a reason._

"What about the shoe?" Edmund asked abruptly.

Psmith opened his mouth and, for the first time since Edmund had known him, actually paused before speaking. "That, Comrade Pevensie, is a peculiar tale. I dare say you'd scarce believe it. You don't strike me as one of those credulous types. Almost skeptical, I'd say." He pocketed his monocle with the tragic mien of one who had seen much but had not the heart to tell the tale. "Alas, for today's youth are but a cast of cynics, born already weary into the world!"

Before Psmith could really get going, Edmund waved his objections aside. "Tell me," he commanded. (A tad imperious, perhaps, but ever since he was a boy — the first time — he'd always reverted to old habits when challenged by the inexplicable.)

Ever obliging, Psmith cleared his throat dramatically. He settled into the deck chair, his limbs somehow managing to spill over the edges — a leg dangling over the chair arm, an arm stretched along the back, until the chair and Psmith anatomy became quite entangled, descriptively speaking.

Edmund slouched on a wobbly wooden chair and loosened his tie.

"The Matter of the Missing Shoe," intoned Psmith, "began much like the first letter of my last name: silently." He paused, pondering. "Rather, it began with the whirring of a clockwork mouse and rather voluminous barking, but I imagine the preliminary plotting was accomplished with many hushed voices and furtive glances."

Psmith's tale emerged like a sculpture from stone: laboriously, with hints of great beauty and sagacity glimpsed under not insignificant quantities of detritus. And his tale, much like a great work, could not be reproduced without losing some ineffable quality of the original. Much later, when Edmund relayed the story to his sister and cousin, he limited himself to the bare facts, a shrug, and an acknowledgement that the original speech had a great deal more pathos.

In actual fact, Psmith was so moved in the course of his discourse that he paused to wipe his monocle not once but twice.

"Forgive me, Comrade Pevensie-with-a-single-initial-consonant. (Must it be so? Alas, such is the thrall of tradition!) Do forgive me — we Psmiths are a sentimental breed."

On the surface, the tale was not one to inspire tears, except for tears of helpless laughter. It transpired with that person and persons unknown and lured Master Downing's pet, an earnest white bulldog named Sammy, to an illicit rendezvous where said dog was painted a lurid shade of red. The perpetrator then appropriated another boy's clockwork mouse, worked with the dog into a frenzied state, and set both loose to chase about in Master Downing's classroom.

The ensuing mayhem, according to Psmith's judicious report, was "a jolly good rag, if one goes in for that sort of thing, but one couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor mutt." Fortunately, Sammy seemed to enjoy all the attention, and the color had faded somewhat with repeated washing. As the owner of a now pink bulldog, however, Master Downing was less than chuffed.

"He has Comrade Jackson locked in his sights," Psmith said sorrowfully, "and will not see reason on the matter. Worst of all, there is evidence pointing —erroneously!— to Jackson, and the poor boy is utterly unaware that his own feet have led him into grave peril."

"Come again?" asked Edmund, grasping at the threads of Psmith's narrative as a drowning man flails for a lifeline, no matter how frayed.

"Jackson was out at night," Psmith explained, "and when he came in, one of his shoes was covered in paint. The next day, the dog was covered in paint. In Master Downing's eyes, the case is closed! But how often in the course of history have hasty judgments brought rack and ruin to innocent bystanders!" Psmith lamented.

"And did Jackson paint the poor dog?" Edmund asked severely.

Psmith drew himself upright, the very picture of wounded dignity. "Comrade Jackson is a true friend to any four-footed beast," he declared, "and to the birds, even to the homely crow that plagues the pitch and jeers at the stoutest batsmen. Why, Comrade Jackson would no more make sport of an innocent animal than—"

Edmund held up a hand. "No more. Please," he added fervently. "But what is your stake in this?" asked Edmund.

"He is my stalwart companion," said Psmith, pocketing his monocle with great dignity. "Need I have more stake than that?"

Edmund nodded in approval. "Go on," he said.

Psmith went.

He had uncovered the plot, he said, when Master Downing commanded him to help search the house. Upon reaching the study he shared with Jackson, Psmith was startled to hear the amateur investigator ask for Jackson's shoes. Fortune smiled! Jackson's shoes, along with a good many other pairs belonging to a good many other students, were all in a heap, waiting to be cleaned.

Unaccustomed as he was to manual labor, Psmith nonetheless had succeeded in hauling the entire basket of shoes up to his study for Master Downing's examination.

It was not a methodical search.

As Psmith told it, shoes were strewn about like flotsam after a shipwreck. Floundering, Master Downing latched onto one particular shoe as a life ring. Psmith, the brave captain, remained an eye of calm in the storm.

"As a keen observer, I noted the splash of red paint and immediately made the connection. I was certain Jackson had not done the deed, but I was equally certain his stained shoe would equal a stained conscience in Master Downing's mind. All measures must be taken, all stops must be pulled out! And so Psmith spring into action."

He pulled a bait-and-switch on Downing, who hurried off to see the Headmaster with an innocuously clean (albeit somewhat battered) shoe. "A most congenial fellow, the Headmaster. It is my intent to cultivate him, when all this unpleasantness is past. Upon my dismissal from the meeting, the Headmaster and Master Downing were still arguing the merits of my suggestion that the red sheen of paint had been but a trick of the light. This bought me a measure of time. I legged it, in common parlance, and have since taken certain steps. Namely, Comrade Jackson's shoe is safely out of the window, and a fresh a decoy lurks in the locked cupboard. Now tell me, perspicacious Pevensie, have you any suggestions for how to proceed?"

Edmund paused, absorbing the facts of the case as the pitch soaks in the morning dew. Like the ground, he found himself both softened and somewhat muddled.

"So the evidence is condemning but circumstantial," he summarized.

"Quite."

"And you switched the shoes."

Psmith shrugged modestly. "An inelegant and temporary solution at best, but even the greatest minds must resort to desperate measures when time is of the essence."

"And you hid Jackson's shoe...?"

"Hanging by a string from the water pipe just outside the window," Psmith answered placidly.

Edmund pointed at the cupboard. "So whose shoe is in there?" he asked, mystified.

"Who knows?" Psmith shrugged philosophically. "If interrogated, I could profess it my own. It is an unlikely place for storing footwear, but not out of the realm of possibility."

Edmund stared at the pile of shoes. A slow smile broke across his face. "Why stop there?" he asked.

"Aha!" exclaimed Psmith. "Pevensie has a plan! Let riders spread the rallying cry throughout the countryside! What fiendish plot has your fevered mind concocted? What great ruse have your ruminations spawned?"

In answer, Edmund grabbed a singularly downtrodden specimen of shoe from the pile and shoved it up the chimney, dislodging a shower of soot onto his hand. No matter; he wouldn't be here long, and the evidence would disappear with him back to Narnia.

Psmith pointed to the pile of soot in the grate. "Downing will undoubtedly spot the evidence."

"Precisely," said Edmund with satisfaction. "That is what we call a red herring."

"Or black herring, as the case may be." Psmith flicked a speck of stray soot off his cuff. "But tell me, Comrade-in-Arms Pevensie (for that truly is a splendid sword; I had no idea the thespian groups in the village were so well provisioned): what do your splendid synapses propose to do with Comrade Jackson's shoe? It cannot remain out-of-doors indefinitely."

"Shove it up the chimney."

Psmith frowned. "But—"

"After Downing searches it." Edmund smirked. "No one ever goes back where they've already looked."

"The hounds discard the trail they've already followed, leaving the fox free to double back to his burrow!" Psmith shook his head in admiration. "It is a pleasure, Comrade-in-Arms Pevensie, to meet a mind as devious as my own."

Not entirely flattered by the comparison, Edmund cleared his throat. "Er, quite."

"Together with my own modest talents in obfuscation, I am certain we can send Master Downing's search in circles. Still, it is not a long-term solution."

 _Long-term?_ Edmund blanched. Not for him — it was past time he return to his own companions. He tried to reassure Psmith. "With such a staunch ally at his side, I'm sure Jackson will be all right."

"We Psmiths are known for our staunchness," the old Etonian acknowledged. "And for a particularly crisp trouser crease."

"Then you have nothing to worry about." Edmund gripped the door knob. Theories of time differentials were all well and good, but he could wait no longer. Unlike Psmith's boyhood companion, who at worst would be in for a tongue lashing, Lucy was still somewhere in the magician's thrice-benighted house, enclosed by walls positively drenched in spellwork, with no one to watch her back. Every second he spent in Sedleigh might put her in greater peril. He had done his duty by Psmith and Jackson; now it was time to return to his own world. Well, one of them.

Psmith coughed discreetly into his musings. "If you must depart in this hour of utmost need, I would plead for one more nugget of your sage advice." He ended the sentence not with a dash, but an upturned hopefulness, practically an interrogative. 

Edmund turned back to face Psmith. There was one thing he could tell the other boy, after all. A hard-won bit of knowledge he was in a unique position to pass on. "When other measures fail, take the blame." His words fell like stones into a still pond.

Clearly rippled, Psmith protested. "But Jackson is blameless! As innocent as the proverbial lamb! Never was there a lamb with whiter wool or purer heart. Never—"

"I meant you," Edmund interrupted. "When men and women shut justice out of their hearts, as your Master Downing has done, a knowing sacrifice can yet put things right."

His words, measured as by the most scrupulous tailor, had a profound effect on Psmith. The latter stood rapidly and paced about the study. "I seem to fathom where your rudder points, Comrade-in-Arms. But do I understand aright?" Psmith skewared him with a piercing look further magnified by the monocle. "You say I should fall on my sword, being blameless myself, to spare my friend?"

Edmund looked him in the eye. "It's been done."

Something in his manner seemed to shake Psmith, for the other boy fumbled his eyeglass while pocketing it. And for once, Psmith had no pithy remark. Indeed, and there was a tightness around his eyes suggesting that this great intellect was left suddenly, utterly bereft of pith — but not, heaven forbid, of the fighting spirit!

Galvanized, Psmith raised his chin. "A capital idea, Comrade-in-Arms Pevensie."

Edmund stuck out his hand. "Good luck, then."

Psmith's grip was surprisingly firm. "Right ho."

There didn't seem to be much else to say, so Edmund nodded farewell and stepped through the doorway, all the while half-expecting to run into the elusive Master Downing, unstained shoe in hand and protestations on his lips.

Instead, Edmund almost ran headlong into Lucy.


	3. Analyze the data and draw a conclusion

"Why, bless me, if I haven't gone and left out the whole point," said the Chief Voice.  
"That you have, that you have," roared the Other Voices with great enthusiasm. "No one couldn't have left it out cleaner and better. Keep it up, Chief, keep it up."  
— _Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ (C.S. Lewis)

"I spent the afternoon musing on Life. If you come to think of it, what a queer thing Life is! So unlike anything else, don't you know, if you see what I mean."  
— _My Man Jeeves_ (P.G. Wodehouse)

"Do not look sad. We shall meet soon again."  
"Please, Aslan", said Lucy,"what do you call soon?"  
"I call all times soon" said Aslan; and instantly he was vanished away."  
—  _Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ (C.S. Lewis)

 

**Coriakin's Island**

"Edmund!" cried Lucy in surprise. "Wherever did you come from!"

"I'm not entirely sure," he answered, grinning, "but I'm glad to see you, Lu. Are you all right? What about the magician?"

Lucy laughed. "I've just met him and he's wonderful! And I've seen Aslan."

"Aslan! Where?"

Lucy pointed behind her, to an ornately carved door with painted filigrees and gilded runes. The last door on the right, making Edmund's Sedleigh study door second-to-last, a change which both impressed and bewildered him by turns. "This is quite the house," he said, discreetly brushing of the soot off his hands. It disappeared before it hit the carpet.

"Come! I want to introduce you to Coriakin and the Dufflepuds!" Lucy grabbed Edmund's hand and tugged him back down the corridor, which seemed much shorter than he remembered. 

"Who and the what?" Edmund echoed, letting himself be pulled along in Lucy's wake. He spared a thought for Psmith and Jackson, but his primary sentiment was of relief. _Thank you, Aslan, for sending me back to the right time and place._ Now that his little adventure was over, he shuddered at the magnitude of the chance he had taken.

Lucy squeezed his hand. Edmund opened his mouth to tell her, but then the others were running towards them and very strange, ruddy-faced, single-footed Dwarfs were shouting inane agreements with everything anybody said, jumping all around and landing with enormous _thuds_ — at least that explained the sounds they'd heard on the beach, and by Jove now he was thinking in dashes — and suddenly it didn't seem like the time or the place to share his small adventure. Not in the middle of Lucy's triumph. So he smiled, stepped back, and let her tell her story. And if some of the Dufflepuds' circular questions and answers reminded him obliquely of Psmith's storytelling, he kept it to himself.

The next day, while Caspian and Drinian were poring over maps in Coriakin's study and while Lucy, Eustace and Reepicheep were having a jolly argument with the Dufflepuds, Edmund once more climbed the stairs and walked down the corridor, which still seemed shorter than it had the first time. This time he stopped to peer at eyeless masks, marble statues and carven runes that seems to shift and twist with the light. He paused in front of a window that showed a bright wooded hillside that Edmund could swear looked more like England than anything he had seen on the island. He also stared into a mirror that reflected an older, bearded version of himself that looked so familiar that it finally made him blink and turn away.

He went in the third-to-last door on the right, expecting to find his own dusty footprints. Instead he found an unfamiliar, immaculately clean room. Shiny beetles were pinned to a board on the wall. The desk was dominated by a stack of thick books topped by a worn journal. "Eustace has a kindred spirit," Edmund murmured to himself, bemused.

Before leaving, Edmund listened at the wall, but there was no sound from the next room. When he reached the second-to-last door on the right, he paused and knocked before entering. The room was vacant and dusty. One set of footprints led to the middle of the floor and then spun, blurred and dashed back out to the doorway where Edmund and hovered, suddenly uncertain.

"Time flows all ways, Son of Adam."

Edmund turned, somehow unsurprised to see Aslan standing behind him in the hall.

"Was it really England?" he asked. 

"Was, is and will be," Aslan affirmed.

Edmund smiled. "Never a straight answer?"

Aslan's tail twitched. "What makes you think that Time is straight?" he asked, and Edmund smiled.

He held up a pair of water stained oxford shoes. "These are Eustace's," he admitted. "I must've lost mine at sea. I want to give them to Psmith... Jackson should have something to wear so his missing shoe isn't noticed. I didn't think of it before. I thought time might not pass… Guess it's too late now."

"It is never too late," Aslan reproved gently. "As you well know."

Edmund dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I don't suppose you would tell me how it all turned out?"

Aslan laughed softly, and the floor rumbled underfoot. "Your part in that story has ended, my Just King. But you may put your mind at ease knowing your words were of use." 

"Will you tell me how it works, then? Time here versus time there?"

Aslan shook his head. His mane rippled like the dune grasses on the island's windswept beachhead. "Time flows all ways," he repeated. "But if you wish to know the mechanics of this room, you must ask the master of the house."

Before Edmund could interject another question, a peculiar object on the wall caught his eye. "It's the blasted fish!" he exclaimed. "And the duck, of course. And this other trophy isn't an animal at all. It's a shoe!" Edmund stepped into the room for a closer look. "It's Mike Jackson's bloody — er, paint-splattered — shoe up on a plaque for all the world to see! Was this here before, Aslan?" Edmund turned back to the doorway, but the great Lion was gone.

Stifling a pang of loss, Edmund moved to the chimney. He put his hand up the chimney, dislodging a shower of soot, but found nothing. No shoe, decoy or otherwise. And no sign, other than his own footprints, that anything had ever happened here at all.

* * *

  **Cambridge, 1942**

"And that's all," finished Edmund with a shrug. 

"It can't be!" Lucy protested.

"What about the mechanics of it all?" asked Eustace. "Didn't you ask Coriakin like Aslan said?"

"Of course I did!" Edmund said testily.

"Well?" demanded Eustace.

"He said, and I quote: 'magic' _._ "

Eustace threw his arms up in the air with an inarticulate cry of frustration.

"But why ever didn't you tell us before?" asked Lucy.

"I don't know," answered Edmund truthfully. "I think it was a bit like before — the memory seemed to fade as soon as we left Coriakin's Island. I'd think about it, and it would just slip away. Until Eustace mentioned Psmith's name just now — then it all snapped back into focus."

"Is it the same Psmith, do you think?" Lucy asked eagerly.

Edmund choked. "Aslan forbid there be more than one of them! I mean, he was a good egg, sure enough. But he could talk the tail off a Squirrel, and by the time he finished you wouldn't know which end of the tree to climb."

Eustace was scribbling frantically in his notebook. "It adds up," he muttered. "Judging by the historical details, probably early 1900s. Professor Psmith is in his fifies... the math works." He abruptly straightened and tossed his pen on the table. "What bothers me is the room."

"Rooms," corrected Edmund.

"No, listen. The first room you went into, the empty one with two trophies, was really the third-to-last door, right? That was Psmith's study at Sedleigh, circa... let's say 1930. Enough time for dust, not enough for renovations. That was also the last room you were in, by the way, only one door down," he added offhand.

Edmund grabbed at Eustace's notebook. "That's—!" he sputtered. "How can you know that? I don't know that, and I was there!"

The tussle for the notebook ended abruptly when Lucy pinched both their ears. "I think I understand," she said over the boys' grumbles. "The third door from the end was more recent in time than the second door. The further down the hall, the further back in time."

"Right!" enthused Eustace. "Only time doesn't stand still. So while you were back on the island in Narnian time—"

"Here-and-now time," interposed Edmund.

"Origin time,"'corrected Eustace. "It's more scientific." Edmund made a face.

"Sedleigh time kept moving," said Lucy more loudly. "Like Narnian time did while we were back here. So the further-back room had moved up to 1930 by the next time you went in, and the more recent room was... what?"

"Mine," said Eustace smugly.

 

After the initial clamor died down, Eustace explained that Professor Psmith had assigned him the room "on account of the family resemblance."

"Resemblance?" echoed Edmund, eyeing Eustace askance. 

"Of course!" said Lucy. "It's because of Narnia. There's something in the air there. And besides, you've seen Aslan."

"Oh." Mollified, Edmund turned his attention back to Eustace, who was looking unaccountably relieved himself. Affronted, Edmund scowled. His cousin could resemble far worse! Lucy glanced at him sidelong, a knowing smile on her lips. Edmund cleared his throat. "He probably thinks I'm your uncle or something. What did Psmith tell you?" he asked.

"Nothing, really. He did give me my shoes back, though, and I can tell you that gave me quite a turn! At first I thought he'd been to Narnia, since that's where I lost them." Eustace turned an accusing look on Edmund, who had the grace to look shamefaced, like the proverbial cat with the canary post-mortem.

"I tried to give them to someone who needed them more," he explained.

Eustace grinned and waved off the apology. "I do know that much, actually.  Psmith said he left a letter for you, care of Master Thripps-Smythe. Only I haven't the foggiest idea what he meant."

"You'll have that feeling a lot," Edmund assured him.

"Do you know where the letter is?" asked Lucy. 

Edmund shook his head in reluctant admiration of Psmith's verbal calisthenics. "Oddly enough, I do. It's in Eustace's room at Experiment House."

 

They cooked up a feeble excuse and pooled their money for bus fare. "I left my journal," said Eustace.

"We're chaperoning," added Edmund. Lucy smiled winningly. Uncle Harold grunted from behind his newspaper. 

"That means we need to be back by dinner," translated Eustace. 

Lucy bit her lip, and Edmund knew they'd be inviting their younger cousin over to their house for a real family meal at the earliest opportunity. "It's too bad Jill couldn't come," said Lucy. "I'd like to spend some time with her."

"Pole's a brick," said Eustace.

Edmund nudged his sister's elbow. "I think that means we'll meet her sooner rather than later," he said meaningfully. Lucy stepped on his foot.

"After hols, maybe," said Eustace. "I should think she'd be awfully keen to talk about Narnia with you lot." He was either pretending not to understand or was truly oblivious; it was often hard to tell which. _He'll get on famously with Psmith_ , thought Edmund.

When they set eyes on Experiment House ("Hypothesis House," declared Edmund. "Lionsgate," said Eustace wistfully.), Edmund thought Jill might be awfully keen talk about anything — porridge, beetle anatomy, the infortune combination of the two, _anything_ — rather than the dreary, gray, featureless buildings that comprised most of the school. 

"Cheerful place," he said.

"Our house is much better than this pile," Eustace assured them. "But actually," he mused, "after Bism it doesn't seem so bad. It may be dismal, but at least here they can't take the sun away."

"No, they can't," said Lucy fiercely, linking arms with Eustace.

If the only thing that came of their expedition was the brightening look on their cousin's face at that moment, thought Edmund, the journey would have been a worthy one.

When they reached the door to his dormitory, however, Eustace stopped and frowned. "I don't know whether we should go in," he said slowly.

"What are you on about? That's why we came!" Stymied, Edmund moved to open the door.

Eustace parried his reach with an outthrust arm. "I'm serious!" he cried. "You might already be in there!"

Edmund's arm fell slack, along with his jaw. It had finally happened. The poor boy's mind had snapped, his synapses wilting and breaking apart like taffy pulled too far. _You have only yourself to blame_ , a little voice seemed to whisper in his ear. It sounded suspiciously like Psmith. _You've done too little to counteract the pernicious influence of  Uncle Harold's newspapers and Aunt Alberta's radishes._

"What ever do you mean, Eustace?" Lucy did a credible job of not sounding like she was talking to a lunatic.

For his part, Eustace looked at the pair of them pityingly, as if their combined intelligence quotients rated alongside Aunt Alberta's potted ferns, meaning they should be watered once a week without fail. "The last time you went in the study?" he prompted. "I told you it was my room."

"Which room?" asked Lucy. "I thought there were two."

Edmund felt a headache coming on.

Eustace apparently felt the same, for he heaved a long-suffering sigh and gestured to the door. "One room," he said, clearly summoning the vestiges of his patience for one last charge into the fray. "Two doors. Many times, the last of which is sometime around now. Did anybody knock on the door while you were in my room?"

Here, at last, was something that made sense. "No," said Edmund decisively.

"Good." Eustace rapped sharply on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

"But... what if I _had_  been in there?" Edmund asked feebly.

"Then you would have heard me knock, but you hadn't, so you weren't." With that inscrutable pronouncement, the sage entered the inner sanctum, Lucy close on his heels. Edmund followed with some trepidation, half expecting an ageless Psmith to dart out of the closet and natter on about the finer points of trouser creases.

Eustace's room was immaculately tidy, just as Edmund had seen it before from Coriakin's house. The beetles pinned to the corkboard were the same, the worn journal was the same, the piles of books were the same. "This is Psmith's study?" Edmund tried to get his bearings. The deck chair would have been here, and the deal tables over there... He peered out the window — and yes, there was the water pipe where Psmith had temporarily hidden Jackson's shoe. And there was the chimney... on impulse, Edmund stuck his hand up it.

No soot fell on his hand, and there was no shoe lodged up the chimney.

"They blocked off all the flues," explained Eustace, "on account of the fire hazard. They'll be bricking off the chimneys this summer. Figures. Now that I know how to make a decent fire, I won't get a chance."

Edmund looked around. Aside from the absence of dust, deal tables, deck chair and a general air of lackadaisical-ness that was quite missing from the Scrubb genome, something else was off.

"Looking for this?" Eustace grunted and tugged a moth-eaten mount out from a poorly hinged cupboard. "Ghastly thing came with the room. I couldn't stand both sets of eyes looking at me, so I stowed it away." Eustace gazed at the hapless pike and its perpetual mouthful of duck. "I might keep it out now, though. Reminds me of a story Puddleglum told."

"Do tell us sometime," begged Lucy. "Marsh-wiggles tell the funniest stories, even if they don't think so."

Edmund gingerly reached into the fish's mouth. His probing fingers touched neatly creased paper. He pulled it out, careful to avoid the pike's razor teeth, unfolded the note and began to read aloud.

_  
Dear Comrade-in-Arms, greetings from Sedleigh!_

_  
_ "Of course!" cried Lucy. "Old Sludgey! There's our proof, Edmund. Experiment House really is old Sedleigh."

"I'll not say I told you so," said Eustace, but there was none of the old conceit in his smile.

Edmund cleared his throat pointedly. "May I?"

_Dear Comrade-in-Arms, greetings from Sedleigh!_

_Since our fortuitous meeting, all manner of events have transpired so that I hardly know where to begin. I shall resort to chronological order. Uninspired, perhaps, but efficient, if one values such things._

_1907 - Jackson is acquitted! More on this later. Sedleigh triumphs in cricket, thanks in some small measure to yours truly. The Sedleighan coat of arms lusters with the sweat of Psmith's brow, you say? 'Tis only a muted brilliance, I assure you, compared with Jackson's performance. More on this later._

_1932 - Psmith returns to his_ alma pater _(for truly, there is a rather paternalistic shade to the old pile, is there not? A fatherly gleam in the windowpanes?). The infamous shoe is retrieved and mounted in_ hommage et bon voyage _to days of yore, for Sedleigh, scene of our golden youth, is no more! The name shall fade away, but the buildings remain. They will be converted to a more modern breed — a_ coeducational _school. More on this later. But something tells me this experiment may not give you the same shock it gave me, Comrade-in-Arms. One remembers a chance remark about a sister and trousers... but such things may be but idle fancies of an overwrought imagination. Forgive me, Comrade, if I err._

  
(Here Lucy giggled. "Is he talking about me?" "Who else?" said Edmund. "Psmith thought I was a thespian." He took only mild offense at Eustace's bark of laughter.)

_1942 - Psmith, professor! At last a return to hallowed halls of old, to relive in small part the glorious days gone by. I shall have to do without my confidential secretary and advisor for a time, for they tell me there is no tenured position as such, but we shall overcome. In the meantime, I shall stretch my own advisory capacities, for there is a boy here whom I intend to take under my wing. The beetle collection is off-putting, but I dare say we all have our eccentricities. Young Scrubb (note the distinguished silent letter! Unimaginative in its repetition, but it brings a proud tear to my eye nonetheless) reminds me of you, erstwhile Comrade, in his regalness of bearing, perspicacity and nobleness of spirit._

  
(Here Edmund paused to snigger, and Eustace turned a bit pink in the face.)

_Thus I entrust to him the key to this study, where of old Psmith and Jackson had many philosophical discussions, punctuated by (in old age, one may admit to it) the occasional rag. It is my hope that this missive shall find its way into your hands and answer the questions that must have burned within you lo these many years since we last parted!_

_It is with gratitude that I also return the shoes you so thoughtfully left for Jackson. At least, I assume it was you, although I did not discover them until 1932. By then, of course, the Lion's share of the work was done, if I may put the matter thus, but it was nonetheless a noble gesture._

(The sudden capitalization of Lion almost made Edmund trip over the word. He made no remark upon it, though, for it must have been a mere calligraphic error. A coincidence with no bearing upon Narnia. ...Right? He hurried on to the next paragraph.) 

_Speaking of which, you are doubtless wondering how the Great Shoe Search of Ought Seven concluded. I took your advice, Comrade, and concealed the evidence in the last place Master Downing would look. Namely, where he had already looked. I then issued a prompt (and false) confession. Oddly, I was not the only one to do so. Did you spread your advice more liberally than my mere humble self? Perhaps the selfless act inspires imitation? The world may never know. But Jackson was spared, as was I, for the true culprit also confessed all! I must say that Master Downing was nearly as red in the face as his poor brute of a dog. As the immortal Bard said (or if he did not, he should have), all's well that ends well!_

_And so I shall end this letter as well,_  
_with fond reminiscence,  
_ _Psmith_

_P.S. To Scrubb I convey the following advice: seek out a convivial companion with whom to while away your schooldays. You need not be of like dispositions, or even of like minds. All that is required is a bond of friendship strong enough to survive the adversity of unjust housemasters, banker's hours, New York, and perhaps the occasional lion — or so I hear. Best of luck to you and Pole._

_P.P.S. The drain pipe was a bit wobbly; Jackson stopped by and fixed it. His advice tends more to the practical than philosophical: climb the pipe quickly and quietly. In a pinch, pull the fire alarm and mingle with the other turned-out residents._

_P.P.P.S. I disclaim any and all knowledge of such goings-on._

_P.P.P.P.S. In case you were wondering, the previous administration removed my trophy, while preserving that of Master Thripps-Smythe for reasons I care not to delve into too closely. Some mystery should remain in the world, Comrade-in-Arms, as I am certain you would agree. In any case, after many investigations and much effort on the part of your humble correspondent, the errant footwear has been once more recovered and returned to its rightful place in the cupboard. Such things should be preserved for posterity, don't you agree?_

 

Edmund reached back into the cupboard and pulled out a battered and paint-splattered shoe nailed to a trophy plaque. His stomach gave a nervous flop like the aforementioned fish must have done when it and its duck dinner landed in a net instead of its own murky bed.

"How did that get there?" asked Eustace, puzzled.

"I don't want to know," said Edmund. "I don't care of it's magic, the laws of physics, or Psmith's sleight of hand. I don't want to know."

"What does he teach?" asked Lucy, ignoring Edmund and leaning forward on her elbows to examine the specimen. "I bet it's psychology."

Eustace laughed. "Who can tell? He said something about us all being perpetual students at the school of life."

Edmund tried to resist, he truly did. But his mind had been sorely tried by preceding events, and terrible puns were like a balm to soothe the rough edges of his psyche. "If the shoe fits," he said in a voice so droll that it took a heartbeat's pause before Lucy began beating him with one of Eustace's ubiquitous journals.

Eustace made a half-hearted move to stop her and then shrugged. "You do rather deserve it," he said to Edmund. 

He should have known better to follow it up with another pun, but he never could resist poking the sleeping Bear. "That's the thanks I get for being the very sole of wit!"

This time, Lucy didn't hesitate. 

As he gleefully dodged his sister's swipes (less effective than normal, due to being doubled over with laughter), Edmund remembered the drain spout and Psmith's advice about the fire alarm bell. It would be a pleasing bit of symmetry, he decided, a sort of homage to the mysterious, shoeless Jackson and omnipresent Psmith, if he resurrected that bit of tradition for a lark.

As he'd once told Psmith, Edmund was nothing if not a traditionalist.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are confused, Eustace would be happy to explain it to you. With diagrams. He may or may not be in Narnia in this present moment, depending on your point of view, but Edmund can be reached in a pinch. He will set you straight, possibly with the flat of his sword, possibly with the pointy end. It depends on any number of random factors you won't be aware of ahead of time (sleep deprivation due to a ripping good yarn, caffeine levels, whether he's had a good argument in the past day or two, whether Aunt Alberta put him to work planting seeds in the vegetable garden alphabetically by genus and species, etc.). You won't know until you ask him, will you?
> 
> A few years ago in Perthshire, a Reverend was out walking by the river when he happened upon a dead fish: an enormous pike that had choked to death on a duck. That part is a true story. Now, I'm not implying that Master Thripps-Smythe exaggerated his prowess as a sportsman. But make of it what you will!


End file.
